A Different Bastard
by Machiavelliwasright
Summary: Instead of being Lyanna Stark's son by Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Snow is Ashara Dayne's son by Brandon Stark and it makes all the difference.
1. Chapter 1

Prompt:

Instead of being Lyanna Stark's son by Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon Snow is Ashara Dayne's son by Brandon Stark and it makes all the difference.

Chapter 1:

Winterfell

_Backhand diagonal, Backhand Side, Overhead Cut, Feint Left, Forehand Thrust_

Nothing, he didn't manage to land a single solid blow on the smirking knight in front of him. Ser Jamie's shield was dented and Jon managed a few solid blows against his armor but the kingslayer was essentially unfazed.

Nothing was more infuriating than fighting this smirking shit, nothing. Jon feinted right with his two-handed greatsword forcing the Kingslayer to raise up his shield, and then lowered his shoulder and slammed into him shoving him backwards before launching into a furious combination. Finally, the knight seemed to take him seriously, he stumbled back off balanced and ducked the cut that would have nearly taken his head off before parrying the next two blows. Unfortunately for Jon, the window of opportunity was at an end and the knight regained his balance and decided it was time to end the fight.

Jamie Lannister smiled before launching his own attack. His one-handed sword was everywhere at once and it took all Jon had to keep him at bay. Far too quickly, it was over and he was on the floor with the point of the knight's sword to his throat and his boot on his chest rougher than necessary.

"Yield?"

Jon swallowed his pride and rage and nodded. "Aye I yield". Lannister walked away and handed his sword to one of the squires in his retinue before motioning for the man to help him take off his armor. He barely acknowledged Jon except to smirk and say, "I expected better."

The small crowd seemed to dissipate. The Lannister men walking back towards the castle where the little shit Joffrey loudly talked about how pathetic northern swordsman were, and how it was lucky for Robb his master at arms didn't let him use live steel, "else he'd be wailing like a woman." Robb bristled but Jon was too angry to care. He stormed past him barely stopping to throw his armor back on the rack where Theon was leaning there smirking. It was enough to set him off, "Something funny Squid?".

Greyjoy looked as if someone had told him he'd finally be allowed to return to the miserable shithole he called home. "'Bout time someone put you in your place bastard." That was the last straw for Jon, he sucker punched him right in the nose before throwing him to the floor and beating on him as hard as he could, punctuating each punch with a word. "What. did. I. say. about. calling. me a bastard." It took Robb and two other guards to get Jon off Theon by which time his nose was busted he probably had two black eyes and may have lost a tooth.

Robb was furious, "What the fuck is your problem? You lose one bout in the yard and go beating up on Theon. Huh?"

"Get off. Let me go stark" Jon wasn't in the mood for another Gods damned lecture about controlling his temper. He hadn't fought with anyone in moons and the smiling shit was practically daring him. He flailed his arms and shoved one of the guards off him before Robb held up his hand.

"Let him go, let's get Theon to the maester." he told the guards as Greyjoy groaned on the ground, head throbbing no doubt. He turned back to Jon and fixed him with an icy stare and his lords' voice, "Father will want words with you, you better come as well."

"I doubt it," Jon spat "He's too busy with the king to notice his children, I doubt he'll make time for his bastard nephew."

Robb started to speak before Greyjoy interrupted him. " Let the bastard go Robb. Let him enjoy his last few days at Winterfell." He turned to smirk at Jon, or tried to, it didn't work well with blood in his mouth and slurred words, but the effect infuriated Jon all the same. "Best remember this bastard, maybe it'll comfort you when you freeze your prick off at the wall." The guards pulled him around the corner and Jon was left fuming. Robb gave one last shaking his head with pity and annoyance before he turned to follow.

Jon stormed off and walked into the crypts until he found himself under his father's icy gaze. Brandon starks stone visage looked nothing like he had in life, or so Lord stark had told him, Jon had never met his father. Apparently, Jon was his spitting image, other than the violet eyes he'd gotten from his mother. They were alike in personality too apparently, the wolf's blood, Lord stark called it. Brandon Stark had lived his life for the same things Jon did. For fucking and fighting and feasting and laughing. The wild wolf they'd called him, until he was so wild he stormed into the Red Keep and demanded that the crown prince "Come out and die". Then he'd watched his father burn alive and strangled himself to death trying to save him. A smarter man might've accepted his father's fate, and lived to fight another day, but not his father, wild to the very end.

Jon often wondered how his life would have been different if his father had lived. He used to dream about it, maybe his father would have wed Ashara Dayne and he'd have been the heir instead of a bastard Lady Catelyn despised. Maybe, but in his heart, he knew that was unlikely, most like his life would probably have been worse. His father didn't feel the same about responsibility, the way Lord Stark did according to what he heard, but even he was brought to heel by their father. Most likely he'd have wed Lady Catelyn just like Lord Eddard but would never have brought him home to Winterfell. His mother would have still gotten sick shortly after birthing him and chose to jump off the pale sword tower when she learned her death was inevitable rather than wait to grow sickly and die. And Jon would have been even more alone.

Not that Jon truly felt alone now, he had his cousins. Robb who he loved like a brother, even though he was stiff shit sometimes. And Bran and Rickon who were far younger than him but would always be his brothers, if not in blood than in bond. And Arya of course, the only one other than him with the wolfs blood. Well, other than maybe Rickon but it was too early to tell. The only other one who just didn't care about duty or station or what was expected of them and just did what he fucking wanted to do. Even though Arya was still a child he loved her best of all. She just understood him in a way no one else seemed to. Of all his cousins only Sansa disliked him, and it didn't really bother Jon because he had no respect for her anyway. She was empty-headed and seemed to care for nothing more than songs.

Not that it mattered, it wasn't loneliness or his family's occasional disappointment that enraged him. It was the pity that set him off. Robb looking at him with pity in his eyes, as if there was something about Jon that he should pity. Jon who could beat him and Theon together to a pulp in the practice yard with one eye closed and his feet tied together. Jon who was apparently the best Bronze Yohn Royce had ever seen with a sword at 13. Jon who had been offered the hand of more than one lord's daughter and was loved by half Lord Stark's bannerman even as a bastard. There was something about him that Robb should pity. As if.

Jon sighed and sat down by his Father's grave and just stared into those stone-cold eyes. The sad truth was that there was, that Greyjoy was probably right. Lord Stark hadn't said anything to him since he'd come back from his hunt, since Bran fell, but he would leave the tomorrow and then what would Jon do.

Originally, he'd thought he'd go South with Lord Stark when he was named Hand of the King, but he knew he'd closed that option off when he'd dared to talk back that golden shit Joffrey in front of his mother. Queen Cersei had wanted his tongue out for daring to speak back to his Son being a bastard, but Lord Stark had saved him from that, and thankfully the king had been too drunk to pay any attention at the time. Even so, Lord Eddard had made it clear that he would not be welcome in the king's party after he'd done so. If Theon was to be believed Lord Stark had already decided he was going to the wall because of it but Jon had his doubts, he didn't think his Uncle would force him.

Maybe he could have gone to one of the Stark bannerman and be a guard or something, but he doubted it. The other lords liked him, but Lady Stark was convinced he was trying to usurp Robb and the lesser lords would be afraid of alienating the Lady of Winterfell especially when her husband was away. The higher lords would probably be too worried about him fucking their daughters, with his reputation so that knocked them out. In truth, they'd probably accept him, he got on well with The Small Jon and the Karstark boys and the Manderly's and a half dozen other lordlings but if there was one thing Jon hated it was having to beg, which Lady Stark took every opportunity to remind him was all he did. That everything he had he didn't deserve and came as a function of Lord Starks generosity.

So, what did that leave, the wall essentially. Where he could freeze and die with rapers' and murderers just like Theon always said. But at least he'd have his pride. Gods knows he had precious little else that was truly his own. Lady Stark would probably declare a fortnight of celebration when he took his vows, he thought hatefully. The woman had always despised him, first because he was a sign of Brandon dishonoring her when they were betrothed, and then because she said he was a threat to her children, just because he dared to beat the piss out of Robb sometimes.

He wasn't a threat to them, truly. He loved his cousins, he would never steal their inheritance and betray them. He just wasn't some meek little shit who bowed and scraped because he was born on the wrong side of the sheets. He wanted something out of his life, wanted to make a name for himself, to leave something behind, a legacy of his own. And he didn't make it a secret when he was better than someone at something, especially swordplay, heir to Winterfell or no.

Jon sighed and turned away to stare at his aunt, and then at this Grandfather and then at the countless other graves and statues at a distance. He didn't know how long he sat there until the door creaked open and the light spilled through. He didn't even have to look up to know who it was, Lord Stark.

The Lord of Winterfell grabbed a torch and approached Jon sighing. "Robb told me what happened, Jon. I thought we'd spoken of this already, you can't fight everyone that tells you a hard truth, no matter how it makes you feel." There were bags under his eyes which were laced with grief and exhaustion and disappointment. It was enough to make Jon feel a tad guilty, but only a tad.

"He had it coming." It was the truth, Theon Greyjoy was a shit. He'd been a shit the day Jon had met him, and he would be a shit the day he died. Only the gods knew how Robb didn't see it. The last time Jon had beaten the shit out of him had been 3 years ago, and if he was leaving now for good, he sure as shit would beat the piss out of him one last time.

Lord stark sighed again and surprisingly took a seat next to Jon, "Maybe he did. I've told you before you have a lot of your father in you. He would have beaten the shit out of Theon almost every time he opened his mouth no doubt, and he would have told off Joffrey too." He paused staring off into the darkness and rows of old Wardens and Kings in the north long departed. "But your father was the heir to Winterfell and even then, it caught up with him in the end." He turned to look at Jon directly in the eyes now, equal parts sadness and affection resting in his stark grey eyes. "I've raised you as my own Jon and I love you as I do any of my sons, but I've shielded you for as long as I can. Jon, tomorrow I leave to be Hand of the king, and I cannot force Lady Stark to keep you at Winterfell any longer."

He paused for a moment as if to gather his thoughts and Jon suddenly couldn't speak. It was the confirmation of everything he'd feared and suddenly it occurred to him that he didn't want to go to the wall. He wanted to fuck more girls to get piss drunk again and arm wrestle the Greatjon. He wanted to see Pentos and Myr and all those cities the Manderly's couldn't stop yapping about in Essos. He wanted to see his brother wake up and walk again.

Lord Stark continued with only a slight pause, "Nor can I take you with me in the king's party, your words to the crown prince would make it a slight and tempt fate." He turned away for a moment his eyes lingering on his brother's likeness. "My wife has insisted you be sent to the wall and take the black." He turned back to Jon for a moment before asking, "Do you want to take the black Jon?"

"No." he barely whispered out the word, with an uncharacteristic somberness that seemed appropriate, after all the vows were for life.

Lord Stark seemed to understand and grow older as a few seconds passed. "No, I thought not. There is honor in serving in the Night's Watch but I fear it is not something that appeals to you." In truth, the reason the Queen did not have you flogged, or your tongue pulled out for calling the Crown prince a liar and craven is because I told them you were going to the wall anyway." So, Theon wasn't lying, Jon thought bitterly. I don't even have another choice, my Uncle already decided for me. Lord stark continued as if nothing was amiss. " I have told them you will go to the wall and so you shall, but you shall not take the vows if you do not wish to."

Jon's eyes widened and at his confused gaze, his Uncle continued, "Lord Tyrion is traveling to visit the wall and you shall accompany him with a few of my bannerman. If you choose to take the vows you shall be able to. Otherwise, you will wait a few days until after Lord Tyrion has departed and then travel to White Harbor. Lord Manderly will provide you with a ship and a bag of silver to make your way wherever you choose."

Essos it was something Jon had always considered, but the prospect of being forced there still left a bitter taste in his mouth. "So, I'm to be exiled then for speaking the truth."

Lord stark shook his head, "So long as I'm Warden of the North no man shall be punished for speaking the truth. Nor will a man be punished without a trial. If you do not wish to travel to the wall or Essos I will not force you to. But you cannot remain here in Winterfell, you cannot foster with another of my bannerman as you are already a man grown, and you have made an enemy of the Lannisters. I would not put it past them to exact petty retribution in any kingdom they have influence, which is every kingdom between the North and Dorne. Where else would you wish to go?"

It was almost a rhetorical question, he didn't have anywhere else to go that was the problem. "I don't know." he said feeling like an idiot.

"I had thought you would be happy Jon. I know you've always wanted to make a name for yourself. I cannot say I have been to Essos but I have heard that in many places they have little regard for a man's birth, and many opportunities to advance in the world."

"I do, I just wanted to make a name for myself with my family there to see it. I wanted to make a name for myself in the north, in my home. I wanted you to be proud of the man I am." Jon ground out bitterly.

Lord stark's eyes softened, "I've always been proud of you Jon. I may not always agree with everything you do, and gods know you have too much of the wolfsblood in you, but I'll always be proud of you."

Jon's bitterness waned and he felt some pride deep inside him. His resolve softened and he stood up nodding, "You're right. Thank you, Lord Stark, I promise you I won't let you down.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The road to the wall

Jon took another deep drink of the wineskin as he listened to Lord Tyrion finish his tale. The imp was funny, there was no denying it. He always had something clever to say or some story to tell. But at the moment no number of stories would alleviate Jon's boredom. They'd been riding non-stop for almost two weeks now and he was feeling restless.

It had started with his dream, he couldn't remember it mostly, but he remembered waking up with the taste of blood in his mouth, as if he'd just eaten a deer raw. Ghost was behaving strangely today too, he seemed to be howling more than he ever had and almost feral. Lord Tyrion and Uncle Benjen suggested maybe it was because he was getting older and his instincts were taking over. They were wary the dire wolves would soon become very poor pets indeed.

Jon didn't think so; there was something else amiss. Ghost turned and sniffed into the wind at the edge of the column and howled again.

"By all the old gods and the 7 new, will someone shut that bloody beast up." Yoren was clearly at his wit's end. The recruiter had looked at the direwolf suspiciously when he first saw him, and it was clear he was not impressed with Lord Stark's decision to let each of his children have one.

"Somethings wrong, he's never acted this way the entire time I've had him." Jon protested, looking around trying to spot something out of place. There was nothing to see though, just a bend in the road a few miles up and then a patch of trees and some large boulders and hills.

"Which is what, a month?" Yoren snorted, "maybe he was tame as a pup but as he grows I'm telling you he'll be more dangerous than a bear. " Uncle Benjen seemed to agree with him, "We've heard direwolves before on our ranging Jon, they might be the most dangerous animals left in the world, not fit for pets."

Lord Tyrion alone seemed curious, "It is odd," he remarked, "that the wolf would get more feral after we just ate and not less. Tell me, Jon, how does he behave on a hunt?"

Jon shrugged, "Don't know, I haven't taken him for a hunt yet, he was too small before the king arrived and I never got a chance while he was here. Why are you thinking there is a beast out there?" His tone conveyed his doubt in that. The patch of trees up ahead could not really be described as woods, and there was unlikely to be any game in the rocky land leading up this way.

"You could say that, after all, men can certainly be beastly, wildlings more than other men or so I hear. And if I wanted to try and ambush a party on the king's road, that's where I'd do it." He said pointing to the small outcropping of rocks next to the bend in the road. "Wouldn't you agree First ranger?" Tyrion queried.

Uncle Benjen looked doubtful. "Hardly a good place, they'd barely be able to hide 20 men behind those rocks plus its downwind from us, there is no way Ghost could smell them. And no tracks or trails I can see, they'd have had to come from the North and somehow knew we were coming without seeing us themselves. We'd see them the instant they left the rocks for miles around." He looked completely unconcerned, albeit as watchful as ever.

Ghost chose that moment to howl again and snarl up in the air where an eagle flew. Uncle Benjen was right, it would be a poor man's ambush there's no doubt about that, their party was just under a dozen, 2 Lannister guards, 2 stark guards, himself, Lord Tyrion, Uncle Benjen, Yoren and 3 recruits from lord starks dungeons, but they were all on horse and 4 of them were armored. An ambush would be a fool's errand especially with wildling equipment and skill, and yet Jon felt himself tense. He had fought and killed wildlings before when he'd stayed with the Umbers for over a year after he'd supremely pissed off Lady Stark and been practically forced out. They weren't known for supremely clever plans, and many thought themselves as far better fighters than they were.

When they were almost upon the bend in the road and the outcropping he unsheathed his sword, grabbed his shield and spurred his horse into a gallop. He could hear his guards curse behind him and Yoren snort about green boys, but truth be told he didn't care, it was probably a foolish thing to do no matter what, wildlings here or no wildlings he admitted to himself, but he was itching for a fight, and besides the last time someone other than the kingslayer had beat him in the yard was years ago, he fought 2 or 3 at a time now, and this would be easy. Hopefully, some of those bastards were here. Ghost took off after him and he saw an arrow fly by him, Tyrion was right, he thought.

20 men, only 2 who were archers hiding behind some random outcropping waiting to ambush him for gods knows what reason. And somehow Ghost had known. He grinned ferally and rode the first man down in from of him, cut down two more in the blink of an eye and ghost tore one of the archer's throats out. This was too easy, they were pathetic swordsmen with shit equipment, one even had a bronze sword. Bronze! What spurt of madness possibly possessed them to do something so monumentally stupid, he couldn't understand, nor did he care. He heard a few shout and charge and saw his guards pass the bend in his peripheral but he didn't care. The other archer had his hands full with ghost and these idiots were about to die one after another.

All of a sudden an eagle dove down and tried to claw his eyes out. By the gods was it fucking fast, it barely missed his right eye and delivered a long cut down the side of his cheek and suddenly he was falling off his horse. He tried to right himself and keep his feet up but barely managed it. He blocked the closest man's sword strike with his shield, growling as he was off balance and forced to practically dive to avoid another wildlings sword. He rolled back and got to his feet and reassessed the situation. The rest of the people in his party had gotten there and were making short work of the wildlings, a few trying to flee, minus the two who were circling him and one who seemed to be trying to mount his horse.

_ His horse! _Unfucking believable. The nerve of these fools. He snarled and charged the two men in front of him, intent on killing the fool before he could flee with his horse. Had they been Robb and Theon, who he frequently practiced against, it could have been a tough fight, him charging forward recklessly and them trained and disciplined and used to working together, it wasn't though. These two had no formal training and no idea how to fight together. He took a blow off his shield and shoved one into the other before cutting his throat open, before killing the next in barely 2 hacks. "GET OFF MY FUCKING HORSE YOU WILDLING SHIT" he roared, as he charged the third, who had somehow managed to mount and ride his horse while Jon had been occupied with his companions.

No one could ride his horse beside him and Arya and maybe some other exceptional riders, which this savage certainly wasn't, he mounted Ruffian like a novice who'd never ridden a pony and yet he didn't get bucked off or anything, Ruffian just let the wildling mount him. It was the strangest thing Jon had ever seen.

The wildling turned to him suddenly and met his eyes. His pupils disappeared for a second and Jon gasped. Then it happened, right in front of him, almost too fast to see, the eagle dove again but this time Ghost leaped up and met him, biting him in half in one bite. Jon looked at the ground stunned. _what the fuck just happened. _His reverie was broken half a second later when the wildling gave out a tortured scream and clutched his head. He opened his eyes barely to glare hatefully at Jon before his pupils disappeared again and suddenly Ruffian took off into a gallop, untouched by the man's legs.

Jon roared, "Get the fuck back here you fucken' shit." He glanced behind him where his uncle and the other men were finishing up with the wildlings and saw that one of his guards had dismounted to chase a wildling through the rocky terrain. He ran up and mounted the horse in one movement and took off to chase after the wildling.

"Jon no. Wait! We can get him later. There might be more of them out there" His uncle Benjen shouted to him but he didn't care. His blood was up and that battle barely satisfied him. They were pathetic swordsmen, some eagle had gone insane and attacked him, there was no one around he wanted to fuck, and to top it all off this fool stole his horse, he was in a fury. The man barely had a minutes head start but Ruffian was a fast horse, and even though the wildling was a pathetic rider, somehow the horse seemed to be going as fast as Jon had ever seen him. Jon had to slow his horse to a trot before long, and let the wildling pull further ahead as his horse fatigued, but it made no difference, with ghost by his side he couldn't possibly lose him, not to mention the man's tracks would be perfectly visible, there were few horses this close to the wall.

It took the better part of 4 hours to finally catch him, in which time Jon had taken a part of his tunic and used it as a rough bandage for his cheek and ghost had been forced to finally rest. He was already as large as an ordinary wolf, but still, little more than a pup and hard riding and fighting had probably tired him out. Ruffian was far faster than the horse Jon had grabbed but the wildling had ridden him too hard and he'd exhausted himself. By the time he caught up to him, they were right in front of the wall, far away from any castles along it, not that it mattered. The wall was 700 feet tall and impregnable, the wildling was trapped, he thought with a feral smile. The fool had caught up with some friends, 3 of them, one woman and two men and nightfall was near. He could see them not 100 yards away with their backs turned facing the wall, as his horse trotted forward, they turned back to face him.

Two of them were arguing about something, he had to strain to hear. "What the fuck took you so long, where are the rest of your band Orell? Where's LittleBow, and Longtoes and the rest?"

"Dead, all dead. The fucking crows gutted us. This here is one of them. Where's Mance?" The wildling who stole his horse huffed out, half dead from exhaustion and clearly struggling to stay standing. He pointed at Jon though with eyes full of hatred and drew his dagger.

The wildlings responded instantly, two of them drew swords and the woman who was talking to Orell drew a dirk and eyed him coldly.

Jon picked up his shield and drew his sword, and then slowed his horse to a halt and called out, "You shouldn't have ambushed us. You shouldn't have fucken' stole my horse. " He turned to the woman and was astonished at her beautiful figure. Full breasts, slim waist, pretty face, and long blonde hair. Tall too. He met her cold gaze, "I don't want to kill any beautiful women. Throw down your knife and you won't be harmed, you have my word."

"Are all southrons as dumb as you? There's a dozen of us and one of you boy. Throw down your weapons, get off your horse, and we'll give you a good clean death. Better than you crows, deserve." She spat.

"A dozen I only see..." they seemed to come out of the wall itself now, one by one through a small gap in the base. Briefly, he realized that his Uncle Benjen was right, this was a very stupid decision. He should have waited. He should run now, he thought for a moment, before he stomped that instinct fiercely. They attacked him on his family's land, they stole his horse, he would kill them all, no wildling was a better sword than he. _Would his Uncle Arthur Dayne have run from a band of fucking wildlings? Would my father have?_ He could still win this, only four of them were near him and however many more were climbing through the wall would have to come one at a time.

He let out a battle cry and spurred his horse forward then and attacked the one who stole his horse, Orell. The wildling was caught off guard and tried to run but never had a chance. Jon rode straight at him and when the wildling jumped to the side he stabbed him through the heart. He pulled his sword back and jumped off his horse before it rode past them. Turning back around he attacked the wildling closest to him, a thin reedy looking man with a bronze sword, and no shield or armor. Jon slit his throat with a counter-riposte and had never felt more alive. The blood was in him, he would kill them all. Me, _Flee from wildlings? _He thought derisively as he turned to the last two.

The woman came first, she dashed forward with her dirk and ducked under his backhand sword cut getting in real close on his right side, as the other wildling, a much more well-built man with broad shoulders and some rudimentary bronze armor and a shield, swung a downward slash on Jon's left he took off his shield. He didn't have a moments respite as she lunged with her dirk jabbing at his throat. Jon took a step backward lowered his shield to cover his throat only to have her flip the dirk into her left hand and try and jam it into his right shoulder. He barely blocked it with his sword when she kicked him hard in the right knee. He howled in pain and stumbled backward as the other wildling tried to press their advantage. The wildling met him shield on shield and forced him back more before charging forward to meet him head-on, forcing his companion to back off or risk being hit by his sword. A fatal mistake neither were as good as Jon on their own and she was far better than he was. Jon recovered from his stumbling backward with his shield up and started to parry with his sword, and counterstrike.

The wildling seemed to realize his mistake and tried circle Jon on his left and let the woman rejoin the fight but Jon didn't give him the chance. He ran at the wildling swinging underhand, the man tried to block it with his shield only to find Jon kicking him with his boot instead. The wildling stumbled backward and tried to flail his sword out and force Jon back to no avail. His neck was cut a second later and his life drained out of him.

His distraction won the woman an opening though, and she took it. While Jon was turning to face her, she jabbed her dirk up aiming for his heart. Unfortunately for her, it didn't make it through the breastplate and he turned to slash at her torso. She danced back and struck again this time at his throat before tossing the dirk into the other hand and going for his groin. He turned sideways, and the dirk cut into his hip and down his right leg, beneath his breastplate, where Jon only had his riding leathers. He roared in pain and kicked his foot out, taking her in the leg. She stumbled backward, and Jon slashed down with his sword. She tried to block with the dirk but it was a fool's errand and when the dirk met his sword it went clattering out of her hand, and her falling to the floor. She looked up at him with defiance in her eyes as he moved forward to end it. He hesitated for a second with the sword at her throat when someone spoke.

"Stop!" The voice rang out strong and commanding and most importantly not even 10 feet away. Jon whipped his head back around and cursed. While his fight with the last two wildlings had gone on and dragged him away from the wall, 4 men had come out of that infernal crack, 3 armed with swords and shields and the fourth with a two-handed greatsword. they were arrayed in a semi-circle in front of him with the two on the sides moving to encircle him. He took a step back and looked back down at the woman with his sword pointing at her and then up at the one who was clearly the leader. The meaning was obvious.

He held up his hand and the two men stopped trying to encircle him. Jon pulled his sword away from the blonde's throat and held it ready, wincing at the pain in his leg. Truth be told he hadn't wanted to kill the woman anyway, she had put up the best fight and might be the biggest danger, he just didn't want his last act before he died to be to kill a woman. It would have been unseemly. And it looked like he was about to die, as he caught his breath another wildling came through the wall and helped his friend pass through as well. 1 against 6, he wished he could say he'd faced worse odds, but he hadn't. He'd make sure to take as many down with him though.

Their leader seemed to recognize his intent and shook his head. "Peace boy, you can't win this."

Jon snarled, "I'd rather die sword in hand."

The wildling chuckled a little at that. "Then come boy."

His 3 companions stepped aside, and Jon came. He was far from at his best, having fought earlier in the day, rode for 4 hours, and fought 4 wildlings before this one. His leg was bleeding profusely, and his knee felt like it would give out any second from the kick he took. He was breathing raggedly and thirsty as all hell, but he'd be damned if he was going to lose to a wildling. Jon charged, determined to end this as fast as possible before his wounds could weigh him down or his exhaustion could take him. He swung a downward stroke at the wildlings head, which was deflected before faking a stroke left and stabbing towards the man's chest. The wildling deflected each with ease and danced back and to the right to use his greatsword's additional reach and counterstroke against Jon's shield with enough force to cause ringing in his left arm from pinky to shoulder.

He snarled and charged again, determined to get uptight where his sword and shield would have the advantage. It was to no avail; the wildling met his shield with his shoulder pushing him back and met his sword strikes with deft parries. He was good, a truly trained swordsman, with more than a little bit of talent, and most importantly fresh. Jon quickly went from offense to defense blocking with his shield, deflecting with his sword and trying to look for an opening. The wildling took the initiative, with broad strokes with enormous power behind them, and more speed than you would expect from someone wielding a great sword. Jon edged backward and thought desperately, he couldn't wait for the wildling to tire as he might in a normal duel, he was already far more exhausted than his opponent and would never last that long. He needed to find an opening or make one.

The moment came when the wildling swung a diagonal cut on his right side, Jon saw his opportunity and pounced. Rather than deflect it with his sword as he had been doing, he turned sideways and let the sword tip slash along his breastplate, without piercing it. It hurt but put the greatsword on Jon's left where his shield could hold it off, and him within arm's length where his sword had the advantage. The wildling realized it too, trying to back off, but Jon had chosen his moment well, his first stroke caught him in the ribs even though it didn't pierce his armor, and his second bashed against his side. He caught the greatsword with his shield when the man had no leverage and pushed him to the ground.

He never made it a step, the wildling flailed his left leg out as he fell and caught Jon's right knee, where the girl had kicked earlier. It wobbled, and he fell backward. He tried to force himself up when a heavy book kicked him hard in his left leg, and then another in his head, and his arm. And suddenly he was getting kicked everywhere, and everything was hurting, and he realized the duel was over, and it had never mattered in the first place, he had been surrounded and a fool, he should have fled when he had the chance. He should have listened to his Uncle Benjen. He should have listened to Lord Stark when he was told to control his temper or it wouldn't end well. Now he was going to die miles from civilization to a band of wildling raiders all for nothing.

The kicks kept coming and he cried out in pain, and rage, and tried to fight, but there was nothing he could do as they kept pounding down on him until the fight went out and he could barely see.

The last thing he heard was a whistle and then he saw the woman's beautiful blond hair and dark eyes and then it all went black.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

-Benjen

Damn fool. Only Brandon's spawn could do something so monumentally stupid. He gazed out from atop the wall into the distance, towards the Haunted Forest and the Lands of Always Winter.

After his fucking idiot of a nephew had ran off chasing after the willding who stole the boy's horse, he and the other men at arms had finished up with the rest of the party. They'd taken the two who surrendered as prisoners and killed the rest. He'd meant to go riding after Jon immediately, but the dumb cunt was already well off into the distance by then and his horse had taken a spear.

He'd sent the two men meant to guard Jon after the boy all the same, but they didn't catch up with him. Instead what they found had chilled his bones in the same way Jon's father had nearly a decade and a half ago. A line of wildling bodies, Jon's horse and the one he'd grabbed from one of the men, with no sign of the boy and prints leading to a small crack in the wall, big enough for a person to slip through.

He'd been taken by wildlings, there was no doubt. His only comfort was that the prisoners they interrogated said they meant to take him as a captive. Apparently, the Imp had been right, the savages had gotten word of their party coming up the road to the wall, somehow, and thought they'd make a gift of their group to the new King-Beyond-The-Wall.

It was also why he was here waiting instead of out on a ranging trying to bring his nephew back. Word had not yet reached Ned, they'd sent a raven to Castle Darry but were yet to hear back.

But it had reached Robb, who was Lord of Winterfell while his father was in the south. The boy had apparently been wroth and a hairsbreadth away from calling his banners and marching north for the insult to his family and attack against the North. Lady Catelyn had dissuaded him of that notion, which was a good thing, such decisions weren't Robbs to make, he was not Warden of the North yet, just the heir managing the castle while his father was away.

Still, Robb was not idle, he sent word to Last Hearth and to Karhold, the castles closest to the Wall, and asked them to send 200 riders apiece North of the Wall, to see for themselves what kind of threat this new King-Beyond-The-Wall Mance Rayder posed to the people of the North, and to bring back his cousin, if he was still alive.

A wise choice, Benjen thought. Wildling raids were not uncommon, and even if they killed lordlings they were very rarely answered in force by the Lords of the North because campaigns North of the Wall lacked practicality. The terrain was harsh and it was almost impossible to distinguish between which clan did the deed.

But if the rumors of a new King-Beyond-The-Wall were true, as they certainly seemed to be, and that king had sent men to attack the nephew of the Warden of the North on the King's Road, the heir to Casterly Rock, and their men, that would be answered in force.

Wildling raiding parties were fierce and fast, they would attack savagely on men mostly unarmed or with fewer numbers and slip away into the night. Wildling hosts on the other hand were weak and rowdy. They lacked proper arms and armor, they lacked discipline and they lacked formal training in how to fight together. A few among them were skilled warriors but, the strength of armies was in the skill of the commanders, and the men's discipline to hold ranks and to follow orders. Wildlings did not follow orders. If they were gathering a host to march on the wall in force, then 400 men trained and mounted could be enough to end the threat altogether. Kill a few leaders and the host would melt away.

The horn sounded and Benjen turned back towards the South at the sound. _Riders. _He hadn't expected them until tomorrow, they must have road their horses hard to make it before nightfall. He walked towards the winch elevator and signaled for the attendants to start the pulleys bringing him down. He could see riders entering from the south carrying Umber banners and Karstark banners.

As he walked out of the cage he could hear one of the men speaking with the Lord Commander, "Have you any word where the host is gathering? Or where Jon is?" The boy had the Umber look, he was massive, over 7 feet tall, and had a thick black beard and a strong presence about him. He couldn't have seen more than five and twenty namedays. _The Small Jon he thought. _He was flanked by a few of the men in his guard and Harrion Karstark, Lord Karstarks second son. He nearly raised an eyebrow, quite a few lordling's for a trip beyond the wall and to rescue a bastard boy.

Benjen chose to answer, "Mance intends to head North towards the Frostfangs, or so the prisoners told us, some wildling clans are gathering there." He nodded towards his horse, "We won't be able to bring heavy horse into those mountains. Have to make our way on foot." The lad looked uncomfortable at that but nodded all the same.

Lord Commander Mormont nodded his head and spoke, "We'll discuss the details as we get you all watered and fed my lords."

Benjen lead the SmallJon and Harrion Karstark into the dining hall and saw to it there men found their way to being fed as well. He grabbed a tankard of ale and joined the high table, where he saw Tyrion Lannister had already made his way to as well.

"I don't believe I saw the two of you at Winterfell when King Robert arrived My Lords, who might you be?" the imp asked politely.

"Lord Jon Umber, heir to Last Hearth." The big umber grumbled out. "No need to ask who you are, Lord Lannister. Your impressive height gives you away." Lannisters were far from well-loved in the North. They had come late to the Stark cause, after victory was assured, and in the eyes of some dishonored them all with their actions during the sack. And worse, they reaped all the rewards. The queen was a lannister after all, and the North had bent to Andals for the first time in 8,000 years. At least they'd gotten their revenge, if little else.

"Harrion Karstark, my lord." the other boy said more politely.

"A Karstark and an Umber. Curious." The little lion remarked with a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"Nothing curious about it." The smalljon growled out. "Winterfell wrote, we do our duty." Lord Karstark nodded at that as well.

"Did Lord Robb command two of the most prominent heirs in the North ride out into the lands beyond the wall searching for a bastard boy with only a few hundred men?" The Imp queried amusedly. It was clear how he viewed them, either as green boys eager for some sort of adventure or as Lords plotting with the Lord of Winterfell's bastard nephew. More likely the former.

Lord Umber appeared to understand his meaning well enough and took it as a slight. "When Snow was fostering with my father he rode out to fight Wildlings often enough, even saved my sister from a raiding party once. We pay our debts Lannister. One would think you'd know something about that."

"Peace my lords." The Lord Commander intervened, sparing a glance to both men, and taking a deep draft of his ale before speaking again. "We should be glad for your aid. The watch is a shadow of it once was. We only man three castles now, and barely number a thousand. If there is a King beyond the Wall, the North must respond. To say nothing of the darker rumors."

"Darker rumors?" Lord Karstark asked with a raised brow. Benjen noticed that he had said nothing to respond to Lord Tyrions suggestion, but his cheeks had colored slightly. Most likely because it was true, the boy was a second son, young and green. Eager for some glory, or a chance to earn some honor of his own. Perhaps he was thinking to join the watch, as Benjen once did.

"My brother executed a deserter not two moons past, he swore he saw white walkers." Benjen spoke softly.

"And the fisherman at Lannisport swear they see mermaids. Men lie Lord Stark, especially men on the block." The imp yawned.

"Gared was on the wall near as long as I, I would not have believed he had deserted but for Lord Stark sending me his head." The Lord Commander cut in. "And his is not the only party to go missing, nor the only man singing these tales. The wildlings Benjen captured all speak of the same thing, of White Walkers."

"Nonsense surely. The words of wildlings are worth piss. And the words of deserters and oath breakers less than that. " Lord Umber affirmed.

Benjen wiped some stubble off his chin and shrugged. "Perhaps." It was not worth the argument. In truth, Benjen did not believe them himself, he had been north of the wall many a time, perhaps it was some sorcery of the wildlings that had tricked Gared, for there was stil some magic beyond the wall, but white walkers, surely not. "Whatever the case we should see for ourselves soon enough. We will leave at dawn tomorrow my lords, with only light horse and supplies, and even that we most likely shall have to abandon at the frostfangs. Lord Commander." He nodded once and took his leave, heading back to his chambers, to prepare for the ranging.

He would have to be at his best for this ranging. While the men of the Nights Watch were his brothers now, he would never forget Ned or Lyanna or Brandon. Brandon's death had haunted him for years, part of why he took the black in the first place, to atone. If only he had spoken up sooner, or stopped his sister, maybe things would have been different. He sighed deeply, there was little use dwelling on it, the past was the past, nothing could change it. But all these years later he had a chance to make it up to his brother. He may not have been able to save him from his recklessness, but there was still a chance to save his son. He would not be stuck at Winterfell to manage granaries and train levies as he was during Robert's Rebellion, he would be there at the front lines and he would not fail.

Jon

Jon bit deeply into the ropes binding him to the tree before opening his mouth and biting down hard again. He'd been at it ever since they'd made camp and gone to tie him up again. The ropes were thick and heavy and the knots around his arms, legs, and torso were under furs that were also tied to him, so he couldn't get to them.

There was only one rope though and one part binding him to the tree, if he could cut through it with his teeth he could get free, and then do ... _something_. Truth be told he didn't really know what, he was surrounded by thousands of wildlings on all sides and even if he did get passed them he didn't know the terrain or have any food, but he knew he was unwilling to sit in this tent tied up with his joints aching and muscles frozen any longer. It was frayed and weaker by now, after all the work he'd put in these last hours. His teeth chattered, and his jaw ached, hell his whole body ached and froze, but still he fought on. He took another bite and wiggled his mouth when the tent flap flew open.

2 wildlings walked in, both a decade or so older than Jon, with bronze armor on. _Thenns he had learned. Apparently, they were some of the better warriors amongst the wildlings, and flesh eaters besides. _Their mouths twitched in amusement and annoyance in equal measure.

"Still at it crow?" The one on the right chuckled out. He pried the rope from Jon's mouth before backhanding him viciously enough to draw blood. Jon spat the blood in his face.

The wildling growled in rage and kicked him hard in the chest. Right in Jon's bruised ribs, knocking the breath right out of him and hurting like all seven hells. Then his companion grabbed Jon's hair and put a dagger at his throat. "I've only ever eaten crow once, bastard. You wanna be my second?" He growled out low and threatening, and dangerous.

Jon could only sneer in inarticulate rage. _He wouldn't give in, no matter what._ "Go ahead and do it you fucking savage. It'll be the last meal you ever have. Your king wants me alive remember." Jon sneered again. He was helpless and at the wildings' mercy. He knew he should be meek and submissive and a good prisoner if he wanted to stay alive, but he couldn't. It wasn't him. He would die before he broke and bowed.

"We're freefolk, not like you southron kneelers. We follow Mance, aye, but we don't lick his boots. You'll show more respect, or you'll be dinner." The one with the knife to his throat said. He pressed it deeper and it drew some blood.

"Put a sword in my hand and let's see how much respect your worth." The wildling laughed at that and drew away his knife. "You're one dumb fucking crow. One of these days you'll push me too far and not ever Mance will save you. Best remember that now, Mance wants to see you." With that he cut the ropes holding Jon's torso wrapping him up in blankets tying him to the tree. The same rope that Jon had just spent hours trying to break, but left the ropes on his hands and feet.

They dragged him off the ground more roughly than was necessary and across the line of tents until they came across Mance's, and then they shoved Jon inside. The tent was bigger than the others at the camp, and had a few people inside already around a fire, Mance himself, his wildling wife, Dalla, the beautiful blonde who Jon had almost killed named Val, and another wildling named Tormunds Giantsbane, a massive fellow who might've been an umber by his size. It looked as if Mance had just finished playing a song. "Here's the crow, Mance, caught him trying to chew through his ropes again." He said and handed over the rope Jon had spent hours working on with his teeth. _Bloody cunt._

Mance examined the ropes for a moment before laughing. "My thanks. That'll be all." He waved the men off and gestured for Jon to join their group by the fire. "Come share our fire boy, have a bite to eat, I bet you could use it."

Jon glared at him but sat down all the same. He'd been with the wildlings for almost a moon and he'd been dragged in front of Mance a few times at the beginning. They'd had questions for him:

_"How many men can Winterfell muster? How many men can the Hand of the King muster? How long would it take for the Hand's men to reach the north? _And many more questions, he'd answered them all the same with naught but silence or the occasional insult. They'd beat him the first few nights, but then stopped and started dragging him from place to place for a fortnight.

Now he was back before the King-Beyond-The-Wall and he'd be a fool not to take guest right when it's offered, even savages had to respect that, he figured. There was a bowl of stew in front of the fire and he grabbed it and took a bite, it was the best thing he'd tasted in months.

Mance eyed him amusedly. "Jon Snow, I would have thought you'd have learned your lesson by now. Even if you did manage to get out of your tent, what do you think you'd find but an early grave? You have no friends here; my word is all that keeps you alive."

Jon glowered at him, refusing to be cowed. "I don't need any of you for friends. None of you are half as good as I am with a sword, you'd not stop me. I don't make friends with rapists and thieves and murderers besides." he ground out

He laughed dismissively at that. "Did your skills with a sword save you from becoming our prisoner in the first place." Jon could only grit his teeth in response to that, it was the truth. He'd been a fool. A cocky fool.

Val on the other hand seemed more annoyed at the rest of what he'd said. "And what are you then, bastard? You rode down Orell right in front of me and would have murdered me too. That's all you crows are, rapists and murderers and thieves." Val spat out.

"I'm not a fucking crow, and that fucker attacked me, on my family's land and stole my fucken' horse, that's not murder that's justice." Jon said fiercely. He had his vices, he liked to fuck and to fight with a fierce passion, he wasn't as honorable as his Uncle or his cousins, but he'd be damned if he had his honor questioned by a wildling.

Mance raised his eyebrows at that. "Orell is a fool, no doubt, but I don't believe you chased him all the way from Winterfell and for your horse no less."

Jon paused and took a bite. Believe it or not this was the most information he'd given the wildlings since he'd been captured. Preferring to spit or promise revenge or lie all the times before this. Probably because he was being tortured and would not give them the satisfaction of breaking him. Now though, by a campfire eating, he could see no harm in telling them this, it wasn't as if it was truly useful information, and he didn't like the way the wildlings looked at him, like he was the one lying. "Not Winterfell, I was on the King's road near a fork heading to Castle Black. Your wildlings hid behind some rocks and attacked us as soon as we passed. I rode that fucker, Orell, down after he stole my horse."

Mance and the others didn't seem surprised at all, rather like Jon had confirmed a theory of his. "What were you doing so close to the wall then if you weren't going to become a crow Jon Snow?" he asked as he took a bite of meat.

"None of your fucken' business." Jon spat back at him. Going to the wall hadn't been his idea and had gotten him in this mess in the first place. If only he had held his tongue in front of the Prince, he'd be in Essos with a bag full of gold rising through the ranks of the Golden company, or maybe the Company of the Roses, making a life for himself instead of freezing and starving.

At this Mance's amusement seemed to leave him and his expression because serious. "Then mayhaps I'll slit your throat and be done with it, boy. I've kept you alive because Ned Stark's nephew could be a valuable hostage, even a bastard, in spite of the trouble you cause me. But crows are seldom worth anything once they say their vows, and unless you convince me otherwise that's what you were meant to be. Not a very good hostage now. Perhaps I'll call back those Thenns."

Jon took a gulp out of the drink, some foul northern ale, for a second before answering. He wanted more than anything else to tell him to piss off, but there was truth in what he was saying. When a man took his vows and joined the Night's Watch he abandoned his family and lived for the realm, and more often than not his family did the same to him. If Mance really believed he was one than this threat had teeth, unlike others beforehand.

With an enormous effort he reminded himself that it was his temper that got him into this mess and that if he didn't think a little bit more he would die out here for nothing, and as much as he despised being a hostage it was better to live. He didn't have to submit, but there was no harm in telling the man the truth in this case. "I was headed to wall aye, but not to become a crow." Seeing his disbelieving gaze, he continued on. "I pissed off the Queen and she wanted my tongue out, so Lord Stark had me ride with my Uncle Benjen to the wall until she was back in the south. Better for her to think I was taking the black then to lose my tongue."

They seemed to reluctantly accept that and Tormund Giantsbane in particular seemed to find that amusing and he leaned forward to speak for the first time. "What does a little Southron Kneeler say to a Queen that she wants his tongue out Jon Snow?" he asked amused.

Jon smiled up at him. "I told her son that he was a cowardly shit, too afraid to face a real man in the yard. She didn't take it well." The wildings all cracked a smile at that, even Val who'd been glaring at him distastefully before that, some of the tension seemed to lift from the room.

Mance relaxed a little and and spoke some more. "If not the wall then what? If you hadn't chanced on us, what was your plan? From what I saw, I doubt Lord Stark's wife would have kept you in Winterfell when her husband went south." he asked, seemingly genuinely curious as to what Jon would choose to do with his life. But that wasn't what he'd focused on in Mance's words.

His head whipped up as fast as it ever had. "From what you _saw_?" He asked.

Mance laughed again. "Aye when I heard your king was coming North I figured I ought to meet him and get the measure of him, King to King. Did you think I was in the south just by chance boy?" he asked him rhetorically with an amused smile on his lips. "Either way you didn't answer my question, if you don't want to find friends among rapists and murderers and thieves, what did you plan on doing with your life boy."

Jon hesitated for a second. When put like that it made him sound like a fool. After all, going east and joining a sellsword company could be described as a company of rapists and thieves and murderers. But he had always dreamed of fighting armies and earning glory though, it was what he was best at, tactics and sword fighting and all manners of fighting, not much else. He said as much, "I was going to join the Company of Roses or failing that, the swords of Bittersteel."

Mance smirked as if Jon had just made his point for him. "I figured as much. I saw it in your eyes boy, you may tell yourself you're not a murderer, but you love the fight and the spoils, same as half the men here." Jon made to protest, to say there was a difference though, he didn't fight unarmed men and woman but Mance only snorted at that. "They're called sellswords boy, they fight for who pays them and naught else. They sack cities and burn villages, they're hired to make war boy, and war is not pretty. Besides I'd wager my right hand there are more than a few of you kneelers who aren't too particular about who you fight either. I knew a few in my time at the wall."

Jon stewed silently for a few moments, annoyed at how Mance's words seemed to ring true. He'd seen wildlings before with the Umbers and fought and killed them. He didn't want to think of them of as starving people with little else to turn.

"Besides most of these wildlings you curse for killing and looting are freezing and starving. You've seen them." And that was definitely true, Jon had seen them, most of the camp had to scrounge for game in the mountains where there was little food and most of the game was fierce predators or slippery prey. "They didn't grow up in a castle and choose to fight for sport like you. They fight to live, it's their way of life."

Jon answered that in a sharp voice, Mance may speak pretty words but was leading an army on his home just the same. "If they want to live they shouldn't come into our lands to fight. You wanna know how many men we have. Many times more than you, Hundreds of Thousands in the Seven Kingdoms, not starving women and children or tired farmers. Trained men with steel in their hands and steel breastplates and with horses' bread for war. Millions of farmers and merchants and peasants and the like who answer to the Lords above them. You want to come south of the wall with an army and you'll be slaughtered, like every King-Beyond-The-Wall before you, and if you want to kill me, expect Lord Stark to respond the same way he did when the Mad King killed my father."

"We have no choice." Mance said coolly. "I grew up on your side of the Wall boy. I've seen your castles and I know my history. I have pride in the freefolk, aye I do, but I know we have little chance against the Seven Kingdoms in a war. Every other King-Beyond-The-Wall gathered their armies to go south and conquer, but not I. The cold winds are rising boy, the white walkers and the dead rise with them, we have no choice but to hide behind your wall.

Jon barely stopped himself from gaping at the man, he couldn't believe the direction this conversation had turned. _White Walkers? What was next Grumpkins and Snarks. _"White Walkers? That's your reasoning? Do you really expect anyone to believe _that? _With no proof at all?_" _he asked with all the incredulousness he felt.

Mance's glare if possible grew chillier. "I invited you into my tent to get the measure of you, and I daresay I have, you're a young headstrong fool with too much recklesness and too little sense. But perhaps you could be made to see some." he got up with that and called out to a few men outside the door, before telling Tormund and Val to get him up and follow.

They escorted him along the camp back to his tent, to his utter confusion. If there was one place he knew they wouldn't find White Walkers in this frozen wasteland it was there. The wildlings however seemed grim and serious, Val even looked at him with some pity in his eyes, a far cry from the look of utter loathing she'd given him earlier.

Regardless they walked him to the tent and opened the flap. Inside lay two naked frozen corpses, chained up with steel chains and tied to the trunk of the tree where he had been tied earlier. There was two steel stakes driven into the ground and crossed by a metal beam where Jon was tied up instead off to the corner, just out of reach of the chains from what Jon could tell, not that it would make any difference.

Mance examined the chains for a few seconds before turning to Jon to speak. "You know how I became King-Beyond-The-Wall boy?" he asked clearly rhetorically. "You know how I united the ice river clans and the Thenns and mountain clans and forest clans, and more unnamed clans?"

Here he paused and seemed to expect and answer so Jon gave him one. "You were the best fighter." That's what Jon had heard from the other wildlings and what he'd experienced for himself.

Mance snorted. "Aye, I was the best fighter. But fighting alone doesn't make a man King. Fighting kills your enemies, it don't make you friends. You need both to become a King, Jon Snow. I killed the enemies I had to and turned the rest into friends Jon Snow, and that's what I mean to do with you. You think I'm your enemy, and if you make it back to your Uncle, or if his forces come to find you, I'd wager that's what you'd tell him, to prepare to defend The Wall from your enemy Mance Rayder and his wildling army. But the truth is I'm not your enemy unless you want to be mine."

He paused for a moment before continuing, "I'm an enemy of the dead Jon Snow, and of the Night's watch that want my people all dead." he pointed at the corpses and stared Jon hard in the eye. "Tonight, you'll meet my enemy Snow, a few hours from now the Sun will be all the way down and those corpses will come up and charge at you in the night, and you'll see I'm not lying to you. You'll look into the eyes of the real enemy. Then, come the dawn you can decide if you want to be my enemy still, stuck in your tent a prisoner, or a friend and help me fight the real enemy together."

Note:

I'm not really happy with this chapter. It has the key pieces I want but could use a lot of improvement especially in the dialogue I think. I may rewrite it in the future but for now I'm going to move the story along. Please give me some feedback on it, let me know if you think it's dogshit, if my characterization is bad, or my dialogue is stiff. Alternatively, if you think it's pretty good and I'm overreacting let me know that too. Thanks.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

It was the longest night of Jon's life. Immediately after Mance left, he'd been a little afraid of the corpses, irrationally afraid he knew, Maester Luwin would've laughed at him and reminded him that White Walkers had never existed at all, and that magic was all but gone from this world in any case. But Maester Luwin wasn't here, and with the freezing cold and the serious, scared eyes of the wildlings, and the way they chained up the corpses nice and tight it wasn't hard to convince himself that maybe, just maybe the threat was real.

As some minutes passed his usual bravado returned though, _a mummer's trick maybe, but naught more than that_, and he'd not be fooled. White walkers, and the dead rising, such things were children's stories, and Jon was too old to be scared by tales from his wet-nurse. So, what if the corpses rise anyway, even if they did what skill would a dead man have with a sword. More likely this was some trick, they would attempt to trick him, and use him to get them through the wall ... somehow. It wasn't like a bastard nephew of Lord Stark could get them through the wall, even if he wanted to, but perhaps they overestimated his influence over his family.

He rolled over away from the corpses and tried to sleep, he put the thoughts out of his mind and reminded himself his priority should be to escape, maybe even kill Mance on his way out. That was a good plan, a chance to gain some glory out of this situation, kill the King-Beyond-The-Wall before he managed to march his armies south into the realm. Maybe he'd impress his Uncle enough to get a lordship or a holdfast of his own and start to make himself known. He could earn the respect from his Uncle's bannerman too as more than just a good sword and an amusing drinking partner. He could make a name for himself and be remembered.

His daydreams were broken by the sounds of furious scratching and hissing, Jon turned back and what he saw froze his soul. The wildlings had been telling the truth, this was no mummer's farce. The two corpses were clawing at their chains, and when that failed managed to awkwardly stand up and charge forward at Jon with surprising speed until their chains went taut slightly more than an arm's length in front of him. Even then they did not desist, they clawed at the chains and hissed and crashed forward again and again.

Jon could do nothing but crawl back as far as he could, struggling against his restraints. It was the eyes that were most terrifying, a glowing blue that seemed to be unnatural, and eternal, frozen and terrifying. He couldn't take break eye contact, and felt like he was being examined by some other being, some power beyond anything he'd ever seen.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity he tore his eyes away from the wights eyes only to see the wight biting into his own arm. It seemed it had realized that it would never break the steel chains holding it back, and chose to try and get them off a different way. Each bite gave off a sickening crunching sound and continued with supernatural speed and strength, until the right arm came off.

When it did, Jon felt fresh moisture in his trousers as he relieved himself, for the arm had not stopped moving. The wight had started on it's left arm now and the arm was using it's fingers to crawl its way towards Jon's neck. Jon's breath came faster, and for the first time he could remember he was terrified and helpless. He couldn't get his arms free or his legs, he was trapped against a moving corpse that could still move unattached from it's body. As it got closer he used the only option available to him and headbutted the hand of the wight, trying to crush it.

The hand smacked against the hard ground with bones broken at sickly angles, but kept moving towards him, slower now but relentlessly. He hit it again, it broke bones and tendons irreparably, but still twitched and moved slightly. Minutes later, the other wights hand came off and then the left arm and each crawled towards him, each he tried to crush with his head again and again.

His head rang from pain, and blood trickled down from what must have been a fresh cut he had created, but he got each of the arms from both the wights, they were pitifully slow now and seemingly no more of a danger. The wights however were a different manner, they gave up trying to run uselessly against the chains and were now contorting their necks and legs in odd fashions trying to break free. Thankfully to no avail, the wildlings had bound them up nice and tight, the arms the only thing they could free, even so Jon did not get a lick of sleep that night.

Their rattling was ceaseless and their clattering of bones and hissing the stuff from nightmares.

It was an eternity later when his tent flap opened, and Val walked in. She had a torch in one hand and a knife in the other, she set the wildlings afire one at a time, and finally, thankfully they seemed to truly die and cease moving altogether. She used the knife to cut the ropes in his mouth, which he promptly spit out so that he could speak again.

"How many?" Jon breathed out.

It was the question that had kept him awake this past night (as well as the wights rattling). The wights were terrifying and ceaseless, but he was a fighter and would fight to his last against any enemy. But if the stories were real, as the tales told it the long night was said to have come 8,000 years hence, and while Jon was no maester, he knew a hopeless battle when he saw one. 8,000 years of corpses far outnumbered the living, by a thousandfold perhaps or maybe more, and not all of the living could or would fight.

Val turned to him sharply and shrugged, "alot more of them than us." seemingly confirming Jon's suspicions. They had the largest army in the world.

Val helped him to his feet, unbound finally except for his arms, and lead him out towards Mance's tent. Rage, hopelessness, and fear warred against Jon in equal measure as the morning brought clarity he had lacked during the night. If the army of the dead was real, his family had to be warned, The North would be the first place to attack after the wildlings fell. And fall they would, he reasoned to himself, their reasons for going south might make sense now, but it didn't change the truth of their situation and their capabilities, they weren't soldiers they were savages.

They would be overrun by the dead and then added to their ranks, he assumed. Though now that he thought about it more he had a million questions about where the dead rose, if they would rise in Winterfell as well and in graveyards throughout the seven kingdoms, or perhaps the wall stopped them.

Mance's tent door swung open and broke Jon's train of thought. Today Mance was huddled with a group of wildlings by a small fire. One was Tormund Giantsbane, who Jon recognized from the previous night, the others he didn't know. There were 3 women and two men, the women were an interesting bunch one with fiery red hair, another with short black hair, and another with a hideous scar that ran down her ear to her jaw. The men were just as queer, one was a heavy set man with weak mean eyes. Jon didn't like him the moment he saw him, though he couldn't explain why. The other had armor made of bones that rattled in the wind.

The all looked up as Val approached with Jon beside her. The air seemed to grow colder as they sized him up, even though Jon had never met most of them they seemed to have heard of him, or at least knew of his kind. Mance's eyes found Jon's and he gave a short nod, motioning for him to take a seat.

"What will it be bastard? Will you help me fight my enemy or will you sit in your tent and freeze?" Mance asked him without preamble.

Mance's parting words the previous night had all but left Jon's mind entirely. He had been more concerned about what the army of the dead meant for his people, for the North, for his family. He took a moment to consider and remember what Mance had said.

Mance seemed to take his seconds of silence as refusal. His gaze turned colder, and he cursed while standing up. "Do you have a death wish boy? Is that it? Too stubborn and too stupid to fight alongside a wildling? Or are you a coward, fighting peasants or for gold is all fun and sporting but a battle for your life, for the lives of everyone, that you want no part of."

Jon was livid. "I'm not too scared to fight anything. Put a sword in my hand and you'll see how afraid I am."

Mance scoffed. "Then what, too prideful too stubborn?"

Jon glared at him. "Fight alongside you to what end? You want me to hack corpses until my arm freezes off? Fine, anything to get out of that fucking tent, but why would you bother. There must be thousands of wildlings here now and more come every day. And if you want me to fight my family, I'll kill you with my bare hands."

Val smacked him hard in the back of the head. "Big words for a boy all tied up." Jon glared at her and spat blood, the blow had been unexpected and he'd bit into his tongue.

Mance moved to stand eye to eye with Jon; Mance was taller and thin, but Jon was big himself and broad shouldered, like his father had been, making the stance far from intimidating.

"Aye I got thousands of people in my camp now. That means thousands to feed and thousands to protect. Those corpses in your tent were Free-Folk, from the Ice river clans, they arrived not two days ago." He turned away and motioned to the other men and women in the tent who'd been silent up to this point. "It's a King's job to protect his people, isn't that right Snow? My people are strong and fierce, they're free, but they've never been trained to wield steel in a castle and few of them are any good at it, certainly not as good as you."

Jon said nothing, the compliment was pointless, there were few who were as good as him that he'd ever seen, and he certainly didn't expect to find another in this frozen shithole.

"I want you to take watch at nights and teach some of the younger wildlings who want to learn to fight, and to join the parties that are leaving to help bring together the other clans."

Jon kept his gaze on the other man's eyes as he ran through his offer in his head. It still didn't make sense, he was good with a sword, aye, but he'd taken enough lessons about warfare with his uncle and Maester Luwin to know that one man wasn't important by himself in the grand scheme of things. It was his reputation, the respect he commanded, the men sworn to obey him, or the brilliance of his tactics, one man alone was nothing. It was part of why he worked so hard to try and gain these things, and why he was prickly when people denied him of them. He must have had something else in mind.

No matter the wildling King's reasons though, Jon couldn't think of a reason why he would refuse, it got him out of his tent and put a sword in his hand. He said as much, "I'll fight the dead with you, but not the nights watch and not the North."

One of the other wildlings spat at that, "We don't need no baby southrons making demands of us Mance. Just kill him and be done with it."

Mance turned to him and then back to Jon and shook his head. "We need every sword we can get to beat the dead." He motioned to Val to cut the ropes off him. "You'll leave now then, with Val and Tormund," he motioned to each of them as he said their names and then focused back on Jon, "Just in case you think of running off, know that were fortnights away from the wall, and you don't know the terrain. You'd die in a week, from thirst or the treacherous mountains.

Jon nodded but said nothing, the frostfangs were famously treacherous even South of the wall and he had no intention of running through them by himself with no food or water. He would go out sword in hand if the time ever came, not from thirst or starvation. That wasn't to say he might not leave if they went further South or back East, say back into the Haunted Forest, there he might be willing to take his chances.

"Where are we headed?" he asked.

"North, and maybe West" Mance said, "There's a large pack of Giants fleeing, you're to lead them here."

Jon eyebrows shot up. First dead men rising and now Giants, now he just needed to find a Grumkin and a Snark.


End file.
